Coup de Grâce
by amourdemavie39
Summary: This is the sequel to We Cry. After suffering through hell enforced by Adler, Neal is placed in a hospital. WARNING: SOMEWHAT DARK WITH LOTS OF NEAL INTERNAL TORTURE.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! I am so sorry I haven't posted anything in a while, but I have been rather busy.

G**enre: Angst/Tragedy**

**Rating: STRONG T**

**Characters: Neal, Peter, Neal's doctor/ EMT Dixie Isles, no Violet or Isla yet, we will get to them later. **

**Parings: None**

**Warnings: Mentions of torture. Oodles of blood. BS doctor stuff. Real happy stuff. You have been warned, I do watch House… haha **

**Inspiration tunes: **

**Disclaimer: My writing could never compare to the works of the marvelous Jeff Eastin.**

**Question for Readers: Do you honestly think that Neal and Mozzie will run? Leave me a review, and tell me what you think!**

As always, reviews are lovely.

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The bright yellow line that danced like a delicate ballerina across the blinking EKG machine reminded Peter that there was still hope left for the broken body laid out in front of him on a gurney. Peter's stomach twisted painfully at the sight of an oozing stab wound to the stomach, a bullet hole piercing the shoulder, and cuts an bruises as numerous as stars in the sky were impossible not to look at. Pain seemed to radiate from his broken body. His skin seemed almost translucent against the white paper the doctor's had laid him on. His eyelids were a purply colour, and his lips were turning blue. Neal looked like he had been through the seven circles of hell and back multiple times, and Peter knew he had done just that. These images in front of him burned holes into his eyes, tattooing themselves into his memory. He forced himself not to look away. The imperfections marred the usually cool and sophisticated demeanor of the young con. Peter knew that this outcome of torture forced him to think of his friend as a victim of a terrible crime.

Peter watched on the sidelines as his friend gripped at straws to remain alive in this dimension. If someone where to ask him if Neal would make it right now, he honestly did not have an answer for them. For they had not seen what Peter had seen, the watery grave that Neal had been kept in for hours, enduring torture that would leave him broken an scarred as a human being. A feeling of helplessness settled in his gut as he realized that there was nothing he could do to ease the physical as well as emotional pain that Neal was experiencing. There was no tracking anklet that could save him now.

Adler better thank his lucky stars that he was dead, for Peter knew that the wrath he would have inflicted upon the low life bastard, also known as the man who made Neal the way he was today, was millions of times worse then the bullet to the skull that he had received. He watched, rage boiling inside of him as a mortician zipped up black body bag, and loaded Adler into the truck. Vincent Adler had gotten off easily, and there was no way in hell he had deserved it.

Peter refocused his attention to his friend. He held Neal's limp hand delicately in his.

"Neal, you need to hold on for a little while longer for me buddy." Peter whispered. "They are going to patch you up, but it may take time. You are going to be fine."

Peter shut his eyes for a moment, and quietly prayed to every God he new existed. He believed that Neal was more than just a friend. He was like a brother, or a son even, and there was no one in the world that could take him away from Peter. His murmurs were interrupted by the insistent bleeping of the machine, demanding the EMT's attention. Neal's heart had flatlined.

He looked up, refusing to believe the man in front of him was at Death's door.

"Neal, come on buddy, stay with me." Tears pricked his eyes, he swallowed hard. He gripped Neal's hand tighter.

"Back up, give me room!" A red-haired EMT shouted, breaking the connection between the FBI agent and his Criminal Consultant. She checked a for a pulse, and shined a miniature flashlight in Neal's eyes.

She jumped into the ambulance, and grabbed a defibrillator. She ripped open Neal's shirt, ignoring his muscular abdomen and chest. She placed the box She spread gel like goo on the the two pads. She mumbled something before stating "Clear." She pressed the pads to Neal's chest.

Peter watched in horror as Neal's body arched into the air, before flopping back down onto the gurney. His heart still hadn't been restarted.

The doctor recharged the pads. "Clear." She shouted, her hair falling into her face, sweat droplets forming on her upper lip.

Neal's body arched once more. But this time as he fell back down onto the gurney, his light blue eyes snapped open. Pain and terror shown in them as tremors wracked his small and damaged frame. He began hacking uncontrollably, his chest contracting painfully. It seemed as though he wanted to rid something from his throat and couldn't do so. Blood spurted from his mouth and onto his chest. Doctors swarmed like honeybees to a hive, trying in vain to help the young man's life become more stable. Then all at once, Neal's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he collapsed onto his side back on the gurney.

"Get him inside! We have a Code Red situation here!" The red-head shouted. Six doctors loaded the cart into the back of the ambulance, and sped off, leaving Peter standing in the tail lights, watching as it disappeared into the distance. He should feel angry that they left him behind, yet all Peter felt was despair.

Peter flipped open his cellphone, and punched in his home phone number.

"Elle?" He whispered, his voice cracking. "It's not looking so good right now."

Finally he sank to his knees on the black pavement, indulging himself into tears that he had been holding back for so long.

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Roses are Red,

Violets are blue,

If you leave me a review,

I will love you!


	2. Chapter 2

Hello again, thank you so much for all of your lovely feedback!

G**enre: Angst/Tragedy**

**Rating: STRONG T**

**Characters: Mostly Peter and a bit of Neal.  
><strong>

**Parings: None**

**Warnings: Mentions of torture. Oodles of blood. BS doctor stuff. Real happy stuff. You have been warned, I do watch House… haha . Also I am doing some of Neal's thought and dreams in italics.**

**Inspiration tunes: Major Minus, Coldplay**

**Disclaimer: My writing could never compare to the works of the marvelous Jeff Eastin.**

**Question for Readers: Neal/Sarah, Neal/Alex, or Neal/Kate? Tell me which one you like best, and why! **

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_He sat alone in a stone room, only dimly light by an old fashion candle, glowing a burnt orange in the palm of his hand. Cold air stung his face like a slap as he looked around the room. No door, no windows, no way out. The room reeked of sweat, blood, and human desperation. He placed his hands next to him, trying to gradually ease himself off the floor. His head pounded behind his skull, feeling as though a drill sergeant was marching his troops through his head. The sound of moaning filled the room. He whipped around, trying to follow the noise. _

_"Hello?" He called out, his voice sounding as if he had been gargling with rusty nails. _

_Fear twisted in his gut as he swiveled around in a circle. Voices mumbled in the distance and footsteps approached in the darkness. _

_"Hello?" He whispered, "Who's there?" He shouted, fear causing his voice to shake. _

_Moments passed. Neal's only constant companion was the sound of his speeding heart beat. His breathing came out in little white puffs in the cool room, eyes searching for the mysterious voice. __The freezing air caused his teeth to chatter. _

_"Hello, Neal." A voice mumbled from behind him. Hot breath smacked the back of his neck.  
><em>

_He froze, body rooted to the spot. A scream built up in his throat, and Neal used all his willpower not to cry out. He swallowed hard, and forced his mind to think of who it could be behind him. He shut his eyes, praying for his life. Suddenly it dawned on him. He recognized the voice. Time slowed down, and it felt as if he was moving through molasses. His limbs burned as he willed his feet to turn around to face the voice that haunted his worst nightmares.  
><em>

_He turned to face the devil in the flesh, Vincent Adler. _

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Peter jammed repeatedly at the lighted button on the side panel of the elevator.

"Damnit!" He cursed. He kicked the side of the door with a loafer clad foot. A short, cynical laugh escaped from his mouth as he realized the stupidity of his actions; he was about to get into a fight with an elevator. Then, if by sheer luck or God's will, the metal doors parted. He stared at them for a moment in disbelief, before briskly walking between the opening. He reached the stark white corridor, the hospital air heavy with rubbing alcohol and worry. He began down the hall, peeking in a few windows, finding anyone from a dying elderly man, to a young child losing his hair to chemotherapy, cuddling his toy bear. He froze, overwhelmed be the innumerable doors that Neal could possible be behind.

"Get out of the way dumbass!" A fierce voice behind him shouted.

Peter whipped around, breaking out of his trance, to find a gurney racing down the hall. The stretcher held a brown haired patient hooked up to machines that covered his fragile body. Blood spilled from an open wound on his chest and onto the latex gloved hand of the red haired EMT that saved Neal's life before he had even been admitted into the hospital. An oxygen mask covered up whatever was left of his body. He was nearly invisible. The gurney rushed down the hall, the doctors raced down the hall, working against the clock to save a patient's life that they barely knew.

"Neal!" He cried out in relief, sprinting after them.

He reached a pair of glass doors, with the words "Trauma Center" printed neatly in red lettering on them. He tried to push past them, but was stopped by a blonde haired nurse.

"Sir, I'm sorry, you can't go in there unless you are medical personnel." She stated, calmly placing her hand on his arm, restricting him from entering.

He pulled his badge from his pocket, and opened it, identifying himself. "I need to see that man." He said breathlessly, placing his palm on the handle.

"Sir, you cannot go in there!" She stated, a wee bit more forcefully. She tried to lead him away from the door.

A male nurse walked up and crossed his muscular arms over his chest. He stood, towering over Peter with a cruel smile on his huge face. "Problem here, Teresa?"

"This man wants to enter Trauma and I simply reminded him that he cannot." Her red, lipstick cover lips curved into a sultry smile.

Peter flashed his badge again. "You don't understand." He began, but he was swiftly cut off.

The male nurse took Peter by the arms, and dragged him away from the door. "No, sweetheart. You don't understand. Teresa says do not enter, so you don't enter." He sneered, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Peter stood rigid, before his training kicked in. He kneed the man in the groin, before taking his left arm, and spinning it around his back as if he were a perp that Peter was about to arrest. He forced him forwards into the wall. The man grunted in pain, angry that he had gotten beat by a man smaller than him. Peter shoved him a little harder.

"No, ASSHOLE." Peter enunciated each word as if he were talking to a small child. His voice rose, shaking with pent up anger, needed to be released. "You don't understand. That man in there," He paused steadying his breathing, forcing the tears not to spill over as he swallowed hard. "He is a criminal, a pain in the ass, and a con artist. But most of all, he is my friend. And I don't know if he is going to make it though the Goddamn night. So you will let me in there, you idiotic bastard, because I need to be there for him."

He stopped, shocked by the words that had tumbled out of his mouth.

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So how was it? Reviews brighten my day, so send me some rays of sunshine :-)


	3. Chapter 3

Hello all! Thank you so much for the continued support of my story! :) It has been longer than expected for this update, so it will be longer for you all!

G**enre: Angst/Tragedy**

**Rating: STRONG T**

**Characters: Mostly Peter and Neal. But we will here from his EMT/Doctor lady, Dixie Isles (Yes she is a reference to Rizzoli and Isles) **

**Parings: None**

**Warnings: Mentions of torture. Oodles of blood. BS doctor stuff. Real happy stuff. You have been warned, I do watch House… haha**

**Inspiration tunes: Clocks, by Coldplay. **

**Disclaimer: My writing could never compare to the works of the marvelous Jeff Eastin.**

**Question for Readers: Besides White Collar, what else do you like to watch on TV?**

**In Case you were wondering :** **The expression **_**coup de grâce**_** means a death blow intended to end the suffering of a wounded creature**

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Here sat the exhausted Peter Burke. In a miserable excuse for a chair, inside a stuffy hospital waiting room, waiting somewhat patiently for news about his consultant. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

After arguing with the two orderlies, and nearly putting a bullet through one of their heads with his Glock, he had wound up sitting in a dingy plastic chair, instead of being in Neal's room to comfort him. Just his luck.

He had called Elle a few hours ago, to give her a status report on Neal. She had heard the tiredness, and worry in her husband's voice, but she didn't address him about it, knowing full well the depth of Peter's concern for his friend. She had asked him whether or not he wanted her there, but he said no, hoping his wife could catch up on her sleep. Jones and Diana had dropped by as well, to give him an update about the other two victims, and also had asked to stay with Peter. He sent them both home, for it had been a long evening for everyone involved.

He checked his wristwatch, yawning. It's hands read 3:24 am. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, determination fueling him to stay awake to be there when his friend arose. He sipped his coffee, which he had ordered straight black. It burnt his tongue, and tasted faintly of dishwater. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, setting the cup of steaming liquid on the floor by his feet. It was worse than the FBI's version of so called "coffee."

A TV glowed, nestled in the upper right corner of the room, broadcasting _Late Night with Jim Fallon _without volume. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the hilarious man, talking to famous Mark Harmon, yet seemed to be focused on their own personal matters of grief and worry. Elevator music seeped through the walls of the tiny quarters, lulling Peter to sleep. He refused to succumb to its quietly sweet melody, and wordless symphony of violins.

He sighed, his eyes flickering to the other members of the area, scanning their faces for signs of what they were dealing with. There were two others in the room that he two notice of, both displayed signs of depression and fear for their loved ones. Anything to keep him from sleeping and provide him with some other form of entertainment. He had beaten his high score of Angry Birds three times in a row. The birds deserved a break.

An elderly woman sat two seats away from him, grasping a blood spattered camouflage army cap and rosary beads in her shriveled, arthritic hands. She was slouched, bent over with her feet not quite reaching the bottom of the white tiled hospital floor. She was muttering something to herself that was presumably the Hail Mary.

Across from him sat a pale young man, grasping the hand of a sleeping blonde haired little boy, as if he may never again wake. His other hand twisted the silver wedding band around his ring finger continuously, a sign of deep anxiety. Tears rimmed the man's eyes, and he was continuously swiping them away, afraid to show weakness in the public eye. Deep purplish bruise like bags etched themselves under his reddened eyes. The man was disheveled, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. Peter reached down and picked up the battered and well loved teddy bear that had fallen from the sleeping child's arms, and placed it in his father's lap.

"Thanks." He whispered, his voice raspy with sorrow. Peter's eyes lingered on the man's face, ashen and white. Pity rose in his heart. He wanted to assure the man that everything would be alright, yet not knowing the condition of his own consultant, he wasn't sure what to say.

A young, red-haired doctor dressed in pink scrubs hurried into the waiting room, sneakers squeaking on the freshly polished floors.

"Family of Neal Caffrey?" She called out, pushing the red bangs from her forehead, glistening with sweat. Her face was heart shaped, her eyes were an electric blue lightly dusted with a splash of makeup. Laugh lines formed webs at the corners of her eyes, demonstrating that the horrors of the trauma center hadn't phased her ability to have a good time in life. Her skin was a porcelain white, and seemed almost translucent, her pink scrubs washing her out even more. She was small in height and build, curves appearing around her chest and hips. She opened a folder attached onto a clipboard in her arms. She pulled a pen from her ponytail, uncapping it with her teeth.

Peter rose, his bottom sore from the chair, movements lethargic. He grunted, pulling his badge from his wrinkle slacks' pocket.

"He's my criminal consultant. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke." He spoke quietly.

She stuck out her latex gloved hand, but then pulled back, realizing that they were still bloodstained. Bile rose in Peter's throat as he realized that it was most likely Neal's.

"I'm Dr. Isles. You can call me Dixie." She gave an awkward wave. She peeled the gloves from her delicate, petite hands, and tossed them into the trash bin behind Peter. "I can assure you that the 'criminal' part of his title does not affect my treatment of him. I have treated serial killers before." She rambled for a bit, before she realized that Peter was waiting for her to get to the point.

"So you are probably wondering how he is doing." She read from her notes, flipping through the pages, eyes racing over them. "Okay, Patient had extensive injuries including a bullet wound, stab wound, and tons of cuts and bruises that also required attention and stitching in some cases. The main concern that I am having right now is blood loss, and the stab wound to the stomach. Neal hasn't been taking in his medicine properly because of it and I am worried that it might have penetrated part of his digestive system, and we are going to do a bit of surgery to eliminate that possible danger." She looked up from the pad of paper, staring directly at Peter. She seemed to be reading his facial features to tell how he was taking this information. She opened her mouth to speak again.

"Agent Burke, Mr. Caffrey is a trauma patient. Not only has he experienced physical injuries, but he will have emotional injuries as well. From what one of your agents and yourself have told me, the man who captured and tortured Neal was a major part of who he is. This experience will leave him in fear that he will eventually turn out to be like this man. Also, Neal is experiencing Rapid Eye Movement, and his hands are shaking lightly, which suggests that he is stuck in some sort of nightmare, which he will remain in until he awakes from his coma."

"How.. how long? Peter asked, embarrassed by his stuttering. He wiped his sweating palms on his pants.

She smiled understandingly, "Time will tell Agent Burke, but it looks promising that he will wake up. We are currently moving him to ICU, and you will be able to visit him soon, perhaps after the surgery. I will come and get you, and we will go together. Does that sound like a deal?"

"Yes, thank you Dr. Isles." He reached out to shake her hand. He sighed in relief.

Her face lit up as she took his hand, and she smile brightly. "Please call me Dixie. I am happy to help all my patients to make a full recovery, and to also make it as painless as possible. And here is my business card, you can reach me anytime. I know a number of great therapists that can aid Neal in his recovery process." She pulled a white card from her breast pocket. She turned and walked out of the room, prepared to debrief other waiting loved ones desperate for news.

He sighed once again, resigning himself back to the chair. He ran his hands through his hair, and leaned forward, staring at the tiny white card.

_What if the roles were reversed?_ Peter wondered to himself. He laughed shortly as he pictured Neal flashing his charming smile as he flirted with the pretty doctor. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and pocketed the card. He leaned back in the chair, and placed his hands behind his head. He would rest his eyes, maybe for just a minute.

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She waltzed into the tiny medical suite. She was greeted by the steady hum of machines and sound of a patient's life continuing. She went and stood beside her patient, taking his hand lightly, intertwining her fingers with his. She looked over him, observing the various tubes and bandages on his body. A tube was thread into his throat was helping him breath. This would frighten him when he woke up, yet was essential because he couldn't breathe on his own at the moment. He was half naked, covered only by a blue hospital blanket, bandages on his shoulders, and encircling his torso. He had a muscular build, a fighter she thought to herself. She felt as if she could watch him for hours, interested in the mystery he held behind his closed lids.

"Hello, Neal Caffrey. I am Dr. Isles, well Dixie. You don't know me yet, but I look forward to meeting you once you wake up. I am going to be helping you get better." She murmured.

She leaned down, studying his face. "Mr. Burke cares a lot about you. He wants you to heal quickly. I take it that he is a good friend of yours. He saved your life, you know. It is interesting to see that kind of concern for a criminal. I hope you can explain it better to me, because frankly I am a wee bit intrigued!" She laughed heartily.

She paused, her voice becoming serious. "I want to help you Mr. Caffrey. I want you to know that you are safe here, nothing can hurt you."

She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her finger tips.

"Have a great night Neal." She whispered, before dislodging her fingers, and exiting the room.

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Alright, I have no poem for you sorry :( But please do review! :)

Comments, concerns, or questions?

You know you want to click that button, I can see your fingers moving the mouse to click it...


	4. Chapter 4

G**enre: Angst/Tragedy**

**Rating: STRONG T**

**Characters: Neal, Peter, Neal's doctor/ EMT Dixie Isles, no Violet or Isla yet, we will get to them later.**

**Parings: None**

**Warnings: Mentions of torture. Oodles of blood. BS doctor stuff. Real happy stuff. You have been warned, I do watch House… haha**

**Inspiration tunes: Hmm, Livin La Vida Loco! Because that practically describes my life right now :)))**

**Disclaimer: My writing could never compare to the works of the marvelous Jeff Eastin.**

**Question for Readers: Hmm, so Victor Moreau or however you spell it, was obviously NOT a coincidence. What do you think it means?**

**WARNING #2: THOUGHTS OF SUICIDE ON THE PART OF NEAL IN THIS CHAPTER!**

**HUGE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED!**

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Pain pulsed in waves, encircling his thin and fragile body and torturing it. He arched his back and tried to cry out, only to have the sound lost inside his throat. His body squirmed as it looked for means of quieting this agony.

He couldn't see a thing, for his eyes weren't working properly. They were shut tight like lids on a coffin. All he could see was darkness, endlessly stretching out before him behind his eyes. He could hear voices, chittering eerily somewhere behind him. This frightened him, and he tried to move, only to have himself fall flat on his back. He withered in pain. He tried screaming again, and again no sound was omitted.

His body felt as though it had been coated with gasoline and then ignited with a match, engulfing him in a fiery mass of misery. It was like every cell in his body had been shot full of searing acid. _ Why can't anyone help me?_ He shouted internally. He curled up into a tiny ball on the stone cold pavement. _Can't you see what's happening to me? _

A faint beeping noise sounded in the distance but Neal hadn't paid any attention to it. He couldn't for the pain had turned his mind into mush. Nothing functioned as it should. Every passing moment seemed like a fight for survival. Every minute was another victory.

His blue eyes rolled quickly around in their sockets behind closed lids, desperately trying to find a way towards the light, and out of the sucking blackness.

_Come on, damn-it! Let me out of here! _He screamed to no one in particular.

"You can't handle this. You are weak." Someone called back to him. The phrase echoed, playing over and over again like a broken record. It scolded him for his suffering.

_You don't understand how hard I am fighting. _He cried, his voice sounding hoarse. He tried to pick his head up to locate the noise, yet didn't have the energy to do so.

"You'll never make it." It called with an evil, taunting laugh.

_Stop it! _ He groaned, another wave of pain overtook him. He thrashed about, trying to ease it.

The voice chuckled again. "Maybe you should just die, because there is no point in living in agony."

Neal tried not to think about how right the voice was. Death seemed far less painful then the torture he was suffering currently.

_I should just die here._ He thought to himself in defeat. _No point in living in agony. _He repeated what he had heard.

So, here he lay, waiting patiently for the Grim Reaper to come collect him.

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She had been summoned to the room of her ill criminal patient. She sprinted up the white corridor towards her destination, nearly taking out a nurse and her bed pan. She yelled a quick apology over her shoulder as she heard it clang to the floor. He red pony tail swished behind her as she moved.

She rounded the corner, and dashed into the room.

"What do we got?" She asked breathlessly as she took a pair of latex from the bin near the bed. She snapped them on, their familiar smell wafting up towards her nostrils. She grabbed a cap and tossed it onto her head, not even bothering to put her hair up into it. Her pink scrubs were covered in blood from her previous patient.

She walked towards the bed, as the doctor updated her. "Patient experienced a rapid increase in blood pressure as well as heart rate."

"Neal." She corrected automatically. "His name is Neal Caffrey, not patient."

The doctor stared at her for a moment before continuing. She could see the look of sympathy in his eyes. "So _Neal,_ flailed a little bit around the bed, so the nurses had to strap him down, hence the restraints. We upped his morphine dosages to see if that would calm him. Unfortunately, it didn't go through, which we suspect again is due to the wound in the stomach. This means that surgery should happen stat." The doctor, a handsome and well muscled blonde haired and blue eyed guy who's name she had yet to learn, spoke quickly from behind his blue mask. It came out a little muffled, yet still understandable.

She shook her head, "We need him calm before surgery can take place. Too much stress on the heart could throw him into cardiac."

The other doctor's head bobbled in agreement. "Since nothing can get through, we need someone to manually do it." A hushed silence fell over the room as everyone turned to look at Dixie, who squirmed in her scrubs uncomfortably.

The machine forced everyone's attention elsewhere as it screeched irritatingly.

"What's happening?" She called, rushing over. Her eyes scanned his vital quickly, looking for warning signs of trouble.

"Blood pressure and BP's dropping." He answered for her. He quickly went to work preparing a defibrillator for a just in case situation. He held them to the side, poised and ready for action, clear goo dripping from them.

"Someone get Peter Burke in here." She called, eyes never leaving Neal. "We don't have a great window of time to get this done." She heard the familiar squeak as someone raced down the hallway.

She walked over towards her patient. She began to do gentle compressions on his bare chest. "Come on Neal, stay here. Help is on the way."

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DUH DUH DUHHHH! Dramatic right? So leave me a review, and tell me how you liked it.


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